was full, sit
patiently in my office and take their turn while he quietly munches his
sandwich behind closed panels--an illusion sustained by a loud
"Good-morning" from my chief addressed to the circumambient air,
followed by the slamming of the corridor door. When I remonstrate with
Mawkum, insisting that such subterfuges are beneath the dignity of the
office, he contends that they help business, and in proof quotes the
old story of the unknown dentist who compelled a suffering prince to
call the next day at noon, claiming that his list was full, when
neither man, woman nor child had been in his chair for over a
week--fame and fortune being his ever after.

When Mawkum gets tired of inspecting the brick wall and the industrious
clerks and the face of the clock, he strolls leisurely into my room,
plants himself at my window--this occurs during one of those calms that
so often come to an office between contracts--and spends hours in
contemplating the view.

To me the stretch of sky and water, with its dividing band of roof,
tower and wharf, stretching from the loop of steel--that spider-web of
the mighty--to the straight line of the sea, is a never-ending delight.
In the early morning its broken outline is softened by a veil of silver
mist embroidered with puffs of steam; at midday the glare of light
flashing from the river's surface makes silhouettes of the
ferry-shuttles threading back and forth weaving the city's life; at
twilight the background of purple is bathed in the glory of the sunset,
while at night myriads of fireflies swarm and settle, tracing in
pencillings of fire the plan of the distant town.

Mawkum, being commercially disposed, sees none of these things; his
gaze is fixed on the panting tugs towing chains of canal boats; on the
great floats loaded with cars and the stately steamers slowing down
opposite their docks. Today he develops an especial interest.

"That's the Tampico in from Caracas and the Coast," he says, leaning
across my desk, his fat hand resting on my letter file. "She's loaded
pretty deep. Hides and tallow, I guess. 'Bout time we heard from that
Moccador Lighthouse, isn't it? Lawton's last letter said we could look
for his friend in a month--about due now. Wish he'd come." And he
yawned wearily.

Mawkum's yawn indicated the state of his mind. He had spent the
previous three weeks in elaborating the plans and specifications for a
caisson to be used under a bridge pier--our client as